Loneliest Light
by I Was Here Moments Ago
Summary: Remus contemplates suicide after the first war. Slight SB/RL.


He could do it.

He's sitting in their- _his_ now, kitchen, the silences between the rhythmic ticking of the clock almost too much to bear, coming in small and steady bursts before being broken again by the simple passing of time.

One.

Two.

Three.

The clock takes him further and further away from when he had life worked out, when he knew good and he knew evil and he knew right and wrong instead of the mess in his mind now.

He'd looked up from his paper after reading yet another article tearing Sirius apart, picking out words like _traitor _and _murderer_ over and over until they were tattooed into the insides of his eyelids and he couldn't look away without seeing them everywhere. His shoes by the door, he never fucking bothered putting them away, ever. Never knew when he'd be called, he supposes. Full ash tray. Maybe the stress was getting to him. Sirius was filthy to live with towards the end, like he'd just stopped caring. He'd thought at the time he was just being paranoid. He wishes he'd been right.

The thing is, the more he thinks about it, the less he has to hold on to. If anything at all. There's nothing left. Nothing. His friends are dead or worse, his parents long gone, no job, barely any money. He doesn't even have a fucking pet that needs him. There is nothing keeping him tethered to this world anymore and he doesn't know why he should have to endure it, because god it _hurts_. Once the numbness is gone and the anger stripped away, all that's left is this ache, and he knows - he _knows _that it's not going away. He's not just lost a lover or his best friends, he's lost the people who make up his past, all his memories, the people he thought would make up his future.

He'd never dreamed he'd end up alone.

He could do it. He looks around the room. Knives. Bleach. The fucking oven. There are razor blades in the house - hell, he lives one floor from the top of the most run down set of flats he's ever seen. It would be so _easy_. So beautifully easy it's almost a relief. It would hurt, some methods more than others, but fuck, if he's not used to pain by now. And he's not even scared of what comes after. If there's nothing, then good, it's better than this _everything_ he's feeling right now. And if there's not... at this point he knows more dead than living people anyway. He stands up, wanders slowly over to his empty glass and fills it up with cheap wine. He doesn't drink it. But it's there.

He opens up the drawers, his fingers resting on the sharp knife Sirius had flat out refused to let him use to cook with upon the logic that he was terrible anyway, adding knives into the equation was just suicide.

He almost smiles as he takes it out of the drawer.

His movements are slow, laborious as he makes his way over to the tiny balcony, if it could even be called that. No real room for one person to stand, let alone two. He looks down, then back at the blade in his hand. He could climb the railings and let go and _sleep_, god he's not slept properly in days. A few quick strokes - one if he's dexterous (which he's never really been) of the knife and all he'd have to do is wait and he'd never have to go through waking up again. Never have to send that quick confused look to the empty pillow beside him before he remembers no one's coming back from a mission or the shops or the fucking library to get back in bed and press their cold feet to his calves or their cold nose to his neck and he _misses _him. Misses that bastard who ruined it all.

He runs the edge of the cold blade over his skin, light, too light to leave a mark.

Another quick glance over the edge, taking in the height, calculating if it would be enough.

Choices.

There's a beautiful sort of freedom in it, he supposes. He doesn't have to die today or tomorrow or for years if he's careful. But maybe it's too late for him. He certainly doesn't _feel _alive anymore.

He decides he's never been one for heights and though Sirius had always been one for theatrics maybe it's rubbed off on him. He could make a scene. Make it mean something. There's no one left to grieve him, after all.

It's on the way back inside, though, that he thinks of them. Lily and James. They didn't have this freedom. They were torn from each other, from their baby, fighting to the very end. They gave up their lives for this war Remus is so fucking _tired _of. Why should he get a choice when they never did?

Where was he when Voldemort was at their door? In the bath? Watching television?

How fucking dare he.

And Harry, of course he thinks of Harry. He's a baby now but he won't always be. He'll want to know things about his parents and Remus is the only one left who could tell him what he'd really want to know. How much of a bastard James could be, but how loyal, how brave, how strong. How Lily could scream with fury until he was sure the ringing in his ears would never go away and how there was sometimes a quiet sort of sadness about her, but how she was kind, how she always knew exactly what to say, how she could cheer anyone up. No one else could tell him that. It's up to him.

He's the only one.

And it hurts, of course it hurts, but he walks into the kitchen instead of sinking down onto the sofa like he'd planned and puts the knife back in the drawer. It's not going anywhere.

But for now, maybe he'll just have that drink instead.


End file.
